


Undone

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [44]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 707 OV, Blow Jobs, F/M, Immobilisation, Magic, Ozmone Plains, Post-Game(s), Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Fran is amused, he thinks, elegant, always, even crouched over him gloriously nude.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Undone

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to lynndyre for beta.

"No blowjobs," Fran had said, those several years ago, the second time Balthier had reached for her, the first he'd had courage to follow through. Then, he'd accepted the condition with insouciant grace, determined to be better than all those before. On teasing open her lips to truly kiss her, Balthier had understood more fully: the flat, sharp edge of her viera teeth grazed his tongue.

Fran has said nothing of why this, why now, but Balthier has his hypothesises. Their unscheduled, if heroic, emergency landing from Bahamut had done its level best to mark them both, but viera heal faster than humes, especially when apportioned the larger share of their potion stores. Fran insists bone injuries-- a tender ankle, and ribs that are surely no more than bruised!-- are better healed by rest than magic, and they do have the time. Even if that has left certain aspects of their partnership unexercised for far too long.

Balthier had thought he was the impatient one.

"Must I cast immobilise?"

Fran does not wait for an answer, and the only magick her lips perform involves no words. Her palm enfolds his prick like a glove, lovely, perfect friction made exquisite by a darting tongue and closed kisses from a very warm, very dangerous mouth. Balthier cannot look away, pleasure shot through with silver threads of fear.

Fran is amused, he thinks, elegant, always, even crouched over him gloriously nude. Balthier has not the will to laugh, nor, granted, to keep his pelvis still. His hands are fists against the sheet. He does not think that he would be so callow as to pull-- but he's never had to resist the temptation of her ears' softly-furred tips brushing his chest just so.

He moves, thrusts, and thinks that the strangled noise he makes sounds closer to pleasure than pain, but Fran looks up at his face, waiting, her hand around his cock warm and callused and still. She will make him ask for it, remembers he needs reminding that he likes to be asked; that hasn't changed. Balthier winces, again, and wishes his need were more indulgent than practical.

"Perhaps you'd better cast it."

And Fran does, lifting her lips and one hand to make the word of power and the sign. The magic makes his skin shiver, the back of his knees, the palms of his hands, though the night is warm. His own magic never feels like this.

Fran waits until he finds her eyes again, and holds his gaze as she arcs her tongue's tip under the head of his cock.

Oh.

Yes.

Balthier would concede the point, mindful of his exceptional fortune-- she's alive, he's alive, they are together-- but he cannot stop talking, hears the buzz of his own voice even as he can no longer follow his own trains of thought.

It's not like being bound, not at all. Like this, his mind can chase itself in circles, attempting to outthink her whims, anticipate her pleasure, but his body remains as still as they need him to be, despite his desperately, desperately waning composure. Not a perfect spell, immobilise allows for stray, inelegant jerks, which catch them both off guard, and the gentle threat of her nails splayed over his abdomen becomes something more acute, that he can neither arch into nor away from.

Fran sneezes, once, when he's imminent, and leans back, but her hand does not falter, her hand is glorious, and he is undone.

She wipes at her hand, his groin, with a corner of their covering sheet, taken up from where he'd kicked it to, not very many minutes earlier. Balthier feels the magic loosen its hold of him, and shrugs his shoulders, stretching; it takes one word and one hand for her to cast the spell again, his body entirely out of his command, at her disposal.

"Fran--"?

She balances over him on one hand, knees straddling his good leg. Fran reaches between her own, and Balthier can see her fingers shining with reflected firelight, can smell the earthy, savoury scent of her musk. Oh, but she must be slick.

Fran is panting already, voice more breathy, eyelids flickering. "You are-- cute when you cannot move."


End file.
